Sorry, Grimms Don't Come With Instructions
by Nahaliel
Summary: Monroe learns the hard way that Grimms, grief and alcohol don't mix.


_**Hello there. I needed some less dramatic whump in my life... And this, is what happened. No slash, a little dash of h/c, some season 2 spoilers. Happy reading.**_

* * *

It's not like it was the last place he'd expected to find Nick. Frankly, after everything, he can't blame the guy.

The bar is dingy, dark and smells a putrid mix of stale alcohol, cigarette smoke and sweat. Rickety billiard tables with stained, green felt occupy the center of the room, vibrating with the loud bass of invisible speakers. The bar counter is to his left. Monroe shoulders his way through a group of arguing Lowen, and ducks as one roars and propels another across the room. It lands in an ungraceful heap, splintering a table to bits.

Monroe huffs a sigh and reaches the bar finally.

"What can I get for you tonight?" A deep voice addresses him from behind the counter. Monroe looks up and is faced with a Jägerbar, all black apron and dish towel draped over his shoulder.

The bartender cocks an eyebrow. "Blutbad, eh? Haven't seen one of you around in here in a while. Anything I can get you?"

Monroe squints, eyes sweeping up and down the bar for any sign of the Grimm. And… There. Down at the far end, to his left, is Nick, engaged in a passionate conversation with a grumpy looking Klaustreich, gesturing wildly and swaying, _badly_.

"Nah," Monroe stands, knowing he should probably get over there quick; the Klaustreich _really_ isn't looking too happy with whatever the Grimm is saying. "Just looking for someone. Thanks."

"That fellow, right?" The Jägerbar nods toward where Nick is _trying _to stand up and impose his full height to his interlocutor. "He's had quite a few tonight. Looks like he needed it... Seems like a nice guy, though."

Monroe frowns, nods to the bartender and marches over to Nick.

He intercepts the Klaustreich's fist in mid-air and gives it a firm, crushing squeeze.

"Get lost," he growls, and the cat-like Wesen turns on its heel and bolts to the other end of the bar. Monroe feels a thump on his shoulder.

Nick has draped his arm around him and smiles goofily up at him. "Hey buddy! C'mon, le's have a dr'nk t'geth'r!" he exclaims joyfully—drunkenly. Very drunkenly. Monroe pulls away at the strong smell of alcohol on the Grimm's breath.

"I think you've had enough. I'll drive you home, okay?"

"M'nroe," Nick whines, dragging out the "o" for at least fifteen seconds, sounding for all the world like a cranky 5 year old. "You jus' got'ere!"

"Yep. And I've been here long enough already. Let's go."

Monroe pulls Nick towards the exit. He waves sloppily at the bartender on the way out, "Bye, Jack. Love y'man!"

Monroe catches the Jägerbar's smirk and spectacular eye roll, and has a sudden urge to smack the Grimm silly.

Nick's feet slip and slide under him, as they weave through the crowd towards the door and Monroe grunts in frustration. Lesson learned; Grimm, grief and alcohol do not mix. He wraps a firm arm around the smaller man's waist and steadies his alarming swaying.

"Wow," Nick slurs, "Strong wolf…" Monroe dutifully ignores him.

He pushes the doors open on the cold night air and drags the Grimm down the steps and into the parking lot.

"Y'know," Nick starts again, and the Blutbad rolls his eyes, "M'ybe sh'doesn't 'member for'a'reason."

Monroe stops, suddenly, and Nick pitches forward. A large hand splayed across his chest stops him from smacking face first into the concrete and eases him back up. He gives Nick a hard, sidelong glance.

His sweaty features are etched with pure, open sadness. He's not trying to hide it; he can't. Nick blinks sluggishly up at Monroe and gives him a miserable, lopsided grin.

"S'my fault, really… Shoulda told th'truth," he sighs loudly. "Kinda deserve this, don'I, M'nroe?"

Monroe doesn't know what to answer to that. Of course the guy doesn't deserve this. _Jesus…_ Nick sways back and forth, head tipped slightly forward, like it's too heavy for his body.

"Nick," it takes him what seems like forever to focus on Monroe's face. "This is not your fault. You hear me?" This is awkward. But judging by Nick's level of intoxication, he probably won't remember half of their exchange the next morning.

So Monroe clears his throat. "Things will get better."

Then Nick looks up at him with the most unguarded, trusting face he's ever seen on the guy since they met and asks, words slurred as hell, "Y'think sooo? 'Cause right'now it doesn't ssssseem lik'it. At'all."

"I promise."

"But'she's'gone… What'm I gonna do…without'er?"

Ouch.

Monroe sighs and hefts Nick up a little better against his shoulder. "C'mon, stupid Grimm. Let's get you home."

Home for now, is Monroe's spare bedroom. It's better than his couch, Nick assures him. _But still as lonely_, is what he doesn't say.

"Whoa." Monroe tightens his grip around the Grimm's waist as he stumbles over his own feet. He blinks agonizingly slowly and Monroe can only imagine the way the world must be spinning before his eyes.

"Shit." Nick swears, and the word is actually pretty clear given the circumstances. Then he turns, folds in half and vomits all over Monroe's shoes.

* * *

The couch it is.

Monroe has to slam on the breaks twice, and bodily shove Nick's upper half out the open car door to keep him from puking all over the vintage upholstery of his Beetle. He's fighting his own gag reflex by the time he pulls up in front of his house.

Nick's forehead is pressed against the cool window when he opens the door to pull him out of the car, face white and shining with sweat.

Monroe pulls him out and slips under the Grimm's arm. Nick's not very coherent anymore, and moans softly as he's dragged along. Monroe sighs heavily, taking pity on the ailing Grimm and hooking an arm under the man's knees, he lifts him into his arms. The walk to the house goes much faster all of a sudden.

He deposits a softly mumbling Nick on the couch, pulls off his shoes, vomit stained shirt and pants and wrestles him into a pair of pajama bottoms. He drapes the couch throw over him and sticks a bucket by his head. That'll have to do.

"Sleep tight, Grimm," Monroe mutters.

A clammy hand latches onto his wrist. "G'dnight, M'nroe... Y're th'best."

* * *

Nick wakes to the smell of coffee. And a monumental, splitting mother of all headaches. He pulls himself upright, head spinning and gut clenching awfully.

He gives an unintelligible moan, and buries his face in his hands.

"I see Sleeping Beauty is awake," Monroe's chipper voice fills his ears. Ouch. His fucking head.

Then it dawns on him. Shit. Shit. _Shit._

"Monroe. Whatever I did last night… Oh, god," he groans and hides his face back in his hands.

"Hey, drink this," Monroe pries them away and fills them with a steaming mug of coffee. The smell makes him feel a tad better.

They sip in silence.

"Thank you. For last night." Nick says after a while, setting his mug on the coffee table. Monroe nods seriously, brow clouding briefly with the sympathy he'd felt for him. Then he smirks.

"Last night just added a new pair of shoes to the mile-long list of things you owe me."

Nick's loud moan drowns out Monroe's laughter, and he falls back against the couch cushions, burying his face in the pillows.

* * *

_The End_


End file.
